


I Imagine in Colour

by impish_nature



Series: Blind Faith [4]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Family Feels, Gen, blind faith au, some nice nights in the twins travels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-15
Updated: 2017-12-15
Packaged: 2019-02-15 04:53:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13023636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impish_nature/pseuds/impish_nature
Summary: Blind Faith AU one shot. Some softer moments from their travels.Stan finds a use for a few blank pages in Ford’s journal.





	I Imagine in Colour

It started with a blank page.

It started with some joking banter that was instantly regretted.

Ford hummed, amused and questioning, his tone light-hearted and his tongue loose from the warm haze of sleep starting to cloud his judgement. A grin stretched across his face, dopey and full of brotherly teasing as he propped himself up, lounging against the fallen tree they had made base beside that night. “Hey, Stan? You know, there aren’t many stories on a blank page.”

It took a few seconds for his own words to process, the gravity of them hitting him like a freight train and with them, the fog of sleep deserted him. He awoke with a jolt, his stomach lurching with the wave of shame.

Ford’s eyes widened in horror, his mouth snapping shut audibly as he sat up straight. He’d been watching his brother contently thumb through his journal, watched his hands trail lightly across entire pages he came across in drowsy curiosity as he waited for his usual tall tale. Nights like these were his favourites. The night sky above them, a peaceful landscape, no danger in sight, the sounds of small animals, life all around them. But most of all, the best part, were the nights when Stan had first watch and he could curl up and drift off to his brother’s story telling, finally content in the knowledge that his brother could, and would, keep them both safe, and more importantly, that the world would keep turning whilst he let himself have much needed rest. There wasn't much that could spoil those evenings, even if usually when it was time for him to take over as lookout, he’d get some mocking whines that ‘my stories aren’t  _that bad_ , stop falling asleep in the middle of them!’ for his actions.

On this particular occasion though, his brother had seemingly got to the end of his entries without noticing, his mind still slowly coming up with tonight's story idea as he carried on turning them before stopping on a seemingly random page. He hadn’t meant to say anything, hadn't thought it through, it had just been some banter to get Stan back for all the teasing he normally got. But now in hindsight it felt like something he should have left well enough alone, something he had no business teasing him for, especially considering the part he had played in their current circumstance.

Stan however, just grinned back at him, white teeth gleaming and eyes crinkling with an amused pride, as if glad that for once Ford was letting himself slip into old habits instead of worrying about the consequences. He hated that Ford stepped on eggshells around him, often joked about keeping watch and keeping his ear to the ground in an attempt to fizzle out his brother’s ever present concern and fidgeting fretfulness. He rolled his eyes endearingly, still smirking mischievously as he shook his head at him. “I know it’s a blank page, Poindexter. Honestly, do you even _know_  how hard you scribble? Your entire diary is like inverse braille.” He stuck his tongue out, still playing with the page. “In fact, I’ve probably passed some blank pages, haven’t I? I’m surprised you don’t go through the pages with the force you draw at when you’re all excited by some new discovery.”

“Alright, alright, I get it, Knucklehead. And it’s a journal, Stanley, not a diary, will you stop calling it that?”

“Never. Now you should get to sleep. Or can you not fall asleep without a bedtime story?”

Ford huffed, pouting reproachfully as he turned his back on him in a poor attempt at annoyance. The laughter behind him was contagious though and he couldn’t help the small tweak of a smile that slipped onto his face at the sound, a warm relief buried in his chest that he hadn't said anything he shouldn't have. “Night, Stan.”

“Night, Ford.”

 

* * *

 

It took a while for him to notice what had happened after he had gone to sleep that night.

There hadn’t been much to investigate over the last few days, a small note here, a small sketch there, nothing substantial to really occupy his thoughts and bleed out onto a page. It was only when they’d found something fascinating, like nothing he'd ever encountered before that he started writing in earnest, and only then that he flipped the page he was writing on and found to his surprise that one of the blank pages had already been filled.

It took a minute of rooting around in his head to think of the most plausible cause to the entry that was obviously not his own, realising belatedly that it must have been Stan while he’d been keeping watch one night. Though that in itself was puzzling enough. Stan had never seemed the type to even  _want_  to sit down and write about anything, he was all about experiencing it instead of recording it and had said as much on a number of occasions when he was bored of Ford's quiet scribbling.

Ford almost wondered where he had found the pencil, but due to their somewhat sporadic travelling and altogether hopeless penchant for getting themselves into perilous situations, Ford had taken to tying his pen and pencil to his journal. He’d lost far too many pens when Stan dragged him out of harm’s way or from genuinely clumsy moments of investigation.

And so it seemed that bored night when Stan had seemed too distracted to talk to him, he had picked up the pencil instead and knowing that the page was definitely empty had used it for his own benefit.

It wasn’t much. Ford turned the book around a few times to see the page from different angles, tilting his head to discern what little he could. There were a number of erratic lines, no real destination in sight, just up and down and side to side, zigzagging whenever the moment took them, a few swirls, some spinning out of control to vanish off the page. There was a more contained doodle, scribbled but decisive though Ford could somehow tell Stan's mind had been more focused on his duty of look out as the lines bisected one another and trailed into nothingness.

Besides, there was still something there that intrigued Ford, something more substantial caught between the peppering absent-minded sketching.

What really caught his attention was the writing. The individual letters, the few scant and scattered numbers, his name emblazoned across in haphazard formations, over and over again, all jumbled within the mind wandering pencil movements as if he'd zoned in and out of the page throughout the night.

_He needed to know he still could._

Ford’s smile slipped, the thought crossing his mind in a painful whisper. But once it was there, it's claws latched in tighter, showing the page in stark clarity. Each letter, each line another clear message that Stan was making sure he still remembered how to write, kept in practice even when he couldn’t see the fruits of his labour himself. And even that was there within the page, his brother's lack of sight both obvious and not, in its own way. It made Ford’s heart ache to see the letters crowded in at points and stretched far apart in others. How lines intersected swirls and half-hearted shapes became filled and covered in letters, as if he’d forgotten they were there. He could see the wandering thoughts across the page like a map, with each new idea overlapping in a way that was crystal clear, sharp and jagged as it showed him by new medium that Stan’s sight was irrevocably gone.

 _You did that._ You're the reason-

“Sixer?”

“Hmm?” Ford started, jolting out of his musings, his head snapping up to find Stan. “W-what’s up?”

“Well, for one, you’re not rambling out science words passionately like you normally do. And more worryingly, two, you stopped writing... Everything OK?” Stan tilted his head, his hands still toying slowly with whatever he’d found that day to distract himself with while Ford investigated.

“Huh? Oh yes everything’s-” Ford gulped, mind whirring for an excuse before the truth, or at least half of it, jumped up at him as the perfect one. “I was just admiring your work.”

“My what?” Stan sat up straighter, eyebrows furrowing in perplexity.

“Your work. You know, you could have just asked if you wanted to make your own entries.”

Stan’s face paled a bit, realisation sparking, though Ford wasn’t sure why he looked quite so ashamed at the notion. “Oh shi- I forgot I’d done that. I was gonna say-”

“Stan, hey, it’s fine. I’m not mad or anything.”

“Really? I would have thought writing in your diary was taboo.” Stan raised an eyebrow, a toying smile trying to make its way onto his face though it was obvious something else was still troubling him.

Ford rolled his eyes, giving an exasperated huff just for Stan’s enjoyment. “Journal, Stanley,  _journal_.”

“Whatever you say, Poindexter, whatever you say. Anyway, I meant to tell you so you could rub it out. Unlike  _someone_  who dents the pages I tried not to press too hard so you could just go over it in pen. It was just something to do with my hands while I kept watch, that's all.”

It hurt Ford that Stan was shrugging nonchalantly, his voice and the action at odds with the tense lock of his shoulders, the hands clutched tight, white-knuckled around his stick, the little tells that said he’d forgotten to rub it out himself before Ford saw, or perhaps by that point _couldn’t_  because he’d lost the page.

That he hadn’t wanted Ford to see him practising, or see what he probably assumed was a failure on his part.

“I can spare a few pages.” Ford shrugged, still not used to the idea that Stan couldn’t see the motion. But the message was clear as Stan looked up at him fairly hopeful. It was sadly easier for him to read the purpose behind the scribblings in his book than it was to read his brother. His brother could be nonchalant, could pretend it meant nothing at all, but the graphite across the page spoke volumes. The work of a full nights movements as Stan got caught up in the fear of forgetting.

If he was reading the page right and the expression Stan was trying to hide then Stan would want to keep practising.

“How about you use the back of the book? I’ll make sure to get a new one next time we’re in a dimension with a big enough city so that we don’t cover one another.”

Stan shrugged, turning his head away from Ford. “Only if you’re sure. I won’t take up too many. It’s just something to keep me occupied at night.”

“Sounds like a good use of a few pages to me.”

 

* * *

 

“Stan what on earth is this?”

“What on earth is what? I can’t see what you’re pointing at, nerd.”

Ford groaned at the wide grin spreading across his brother’s face. He knew exactly what he was talking about, that much was obvious from the mock innocent expression he was trying, and failing, to pull off. “Very funny, Stan.”

“What? I’m not lying.” Stan waved a hand in front of his face to accentuate his point. “No vision, remember?”

Ford tried not to roll his eyes, the part of him that still winced at Stan’s jokes shrivelling up under the amused irritation. He glanced back down at his journal, a small cartoon monster ‘grr’ing back at him from his latest entry about a fascinating creature that had attacked them the day before. He wasn’t even upset about it, a bubble of laughter had been forced out of him at the sight and Stan chuckled, shuffling beside him as if he knew exactly what was going on.

In hindsight, he obviously had known what was going on, having prepared it earlier.

“What, Ford? You don’t like it?”

“What even  _is_ it?”

Stan huffed, jokingly put out as he crossed his arms. “The cheek of it! I was only following your instructions!”

“My- what?”

“Your instructions!”

Ford stared at the mischievous smirk a bit longer before glancing back at the picture in puzzled amusement.

It took a while, a soft hint of a memory slipping back through a white fog of sleepiness, disjointed and distorted from lack of recall.

It didn’t help that Stan was snickering beside him, practically vibrating with glee.

He gave him a punch to the shoulder in retaliation when the memory finally clicked back into place, no bite to his actions. He was still whined at, his brother’s voice nasal in a way that reminded him of them telling on the other to their mother as kids.

“What?  _You_   _told_ me the page was empty.”

_“Hey Sixer, did you run out of words to say on this page?”_

_“Nothing more to say on the creature.” Ford shrugged, glancing over as Stan trailed a hand down the page. The image swam slightly as he laid down, too tired to fight the tug of sleep._

_“So I was right, you haven’t filled this page?”_

_Ford couldn’t help the soft dazed smile at the proud one that marred Stan’s face. His perception of touch was improving immensely and every achievement was worn like a badge of honour instead of a reminder to what was lost. “Yeah.” The word came out as a whisper. “You got it, Stan.”_

“I- wait, you-?”

“Hey, look, sounds like something clicked up there.” Stan knocked on Ford’s head, his hand getting shoved unceremoniously away. “I thought you’d be quicker than that. I mean, I know you were almost dead on your feet at the time, but come on. Were you running on autopilot that much?”

_“Hey, you can’t sleep yet! You were meant to tell me about the creature that I saved you from today!”_

_Ford grunted, eyes closed and hands shaking half-heartedly and dismissively in Stan’s direction. “I dunno. You yanked me away too quickly.”_

_“I call bull. You always get details.”_

_“Big. Furry… Sharp teeth. Usual-” Ford yawned, dropping off entirely. “Usual monster qualities.”_

“You didn’t exactly give me much to go on.” Stan sighed, plucking the book from his hand and pretending to regard his own drawing. “I did what I could, considering your lack of input.”

Ford snorted, the small creature glaring back at him from the page beside his own much more anatomical sketch.

It was kind of nice, to see how Stan ‘saw’ the world when they spoke.

“Would you like to do more of them?” The words were out before he could stop them, his curiosity fizzling at the thought of Stan drawing the beings they had encountered based just on his explanations.

“Nah, only when your descriptions are that funny and almost nonsensical for you.” Stan shook his head, taking the lead as they went back to walking, dodging a well meant clip to the head with his smirk still in place.

“I mean-  _usual monster qualities_? Really Ford, have you seen the amount of weird things we’ve encountered that make ‘usual’ seem like downright scarce?”

 

* * *

 

“Wait, really?”

"Yes, really." Ford gulped nervously at the blank expression his brother was giving him, hands still down by his sides. His own began to tap on the cover of the book he was gripping tightly, his brilliant idea now seeming more and more ridiculous by the second as his brother sat before him, giving him nothing to work with. He almost felt like pacing, his mouth ready to run away with itself as he waited with bated breath for some kind of response, anything at all to let him know he hadn't overstepped his mark.

He didn't have to wait long.

Stan's face split into a bright smile, eyes alight with excitement as he raised up his arms, palms outstretched and up towards him. "You didn't have to, Sixer."

Ford's shoulders slumped in relief as he leaned forward, placing the book slowly into his grip, waiting until he was sure he had a hold of it before letting go. "I know I didn't have to, but I wanted to." His smile grew brighter as Stan pulled the book towards his chest, fingers walked paths along the cover, face turning thoughtful as if debating what to draw on the first page. "I thought you'd like your own book to draw in without worrying about asking me if you could- not that you ever had to ask that is."

"I didn't want to take up too much space."

Ford's face softened as he sat beside him on the bed. His present wasn't much, but it wasn't often that they were in a city or a town that had many supplies to begin with, let alone a stationary shop. So now that they were here, and had found a place to sleep for the night, he'd made it his first port of call, not because he was worried in the same way Stan was, but because he wanted Stan to have something that was purely his. They didn't have much, they couldn't with all their travelling but that didn't mean they couldn't have a few things to keep them going throughout their journey. "As if, your pages are some of my favourites."

Stan snorted, disbelieving but grateful. "If you say so." He raised an eyebrow, turning to him again. "I thought you said you'd get a new journal, not a sketchbook next time we were in a city, anyway?"

Ford huffed, slightly put out by the question. "I did, but I got you a sketchbook too." He looked down at his feet then, kicking back and forth as a petulance took over.

He had every intention of getting Stan the book, it had only been whilst he was there that he'd thought to get himself something new too.

Not the other way around.

...Though, if he was honest, he could see why Stan might think otherwise.

"You really didn't have to, bro."

Stan's hand came down heavy on his shoulder, wrapping his arm around him in a tight squeeze. He didn't know whether it was an apology or a thanks but he took it either way, the sullen atmosphere vanishing as he sat there.

As long as Stan was happy with his gift, maybe it didn't matter what the circumstances were.

It was a few moments later when Stan's hand landed on the piece of string tied to the book, mouth opening in question though Ford beat him to it.

"Oh, I thought I'd tie the pencil there, like I have on mine. I've found it's been useful in not losing them within minutes of our adventures."

" _Sweet_." Stan grinned, pulling away from him to tug at the string, whirling the pencil in and around his fingers. "Maybe I'll draw something tonight then. What do you think I should draw?"

Ford beamed, standing up with a groan as he went over to his own bed where he'd dropped the rest of his shopping. "Whatever picks your fancy, I guess. It's your book, after all." His giddy happiness grew as Stan huffed playfully behind him about 'useless brothers', a soft chuckle escaping him as he rifled through the bags.

"What else you got, Sixer?"

"Oh, not much." Ford shrugged, dropping items on the bed. "A few more pens, pencils, the journal and sketchbook. Apparently I bought enough to get some colouring pencils for free... just wish I could have grabbed some more pens instead honestly-"

"Wait, there are colouring pencils?"

"Yes?" Ford blinked as he heard movement behind him, turning around to see Stan's hands out towards him again, small grabbing motions flapping through the air. "You want them?"

Stan nodded fervently, glee evident at the mere suggestion of them, hands grasping out more desperately. "If you don't want them?"

Ford bit down on his lip, Stan's question so at odds with his actions that he wanted to burst out laughing. "Here." He tossed the small metal case to the bed beside him, going back to unpacking again. There were questions on the tip of his tongue, small little curiosities but he held them at bay, not wanting to ruin the obvious excitement into bashful sheepishness once more.

It was nice to see Stan not hesitate, not question if something was OK before he did it, just because he wanted to.

And so just this once, he wouldn't ask, he'd let it go before Stan locked up and stopped himself from just being him.

There was a happy little chirp behind him as he worked, the small click of metal as the case opened. "Hey, they fit in snugly, perfect, that'll be easier to keep track of them."

Ford hummed in agreement, still shocked and proud with how candidly Stan spoke about everything, making it all seem like less of an issue when he knew it really was. But if Stan could push past it and keep on moving forward then so could he.

He just hoped Stan knew how proud of him he was for that.

"Hey, Sixer? Can you help me with something?"

"Of course. What do you need?" The question wasn't said with any trepidation, though there was a shift of awkwardness to Stan's smile that had him ready for anything when he turned to answer.

"...You think you could help me carve some letters or something on to these? So I know which ones which without asking you all the time?"

Ford blinked at him a few times before relaxing, ignoring that hateful whisper that after all this time still reared it's head to remind him how wrong all this really was.

"That's a great idea, then your drawings can be a complete surprise for me- that is if you're happy to share them with me."

Stan nodded quickly. "Of course. Just don't laugh at how bad they are compared to yours."

"As if."

They worked in silence for a while, trading small snippets of small talk- where they'd go next, what they should do, what troubles they might get into- but happily let it fade back into a comfortable silence as the sun sank outside the window beside them.

It was after it had been quiet for a long time that Ford felt Stan lean against him.

"Thanks, Sixer. For all of this."

"Don't mention it."

 

* * *

 

Ford closed his eyes, lulled into a small sense of peace by the scratching of the pencil.

He understood now why Stan didn’t complain all that much when he got into the zone. It was a pleasant noise, a serene knowledge that his brother was captivated by something enough to stop noticing the outside world for once.

The constant confident push had him almost drifting off where he sat.

It was nice once in a while. Just to stop for a minute. To shut his brain off and just pause for breath.

It took him a full minute to notice when the noise vanished abruptly, the silence confusing but hard to process through the peaceful hum at his core.

“Why’d you stop?”

Stan shrugged, book snapping shut audibly and making Ford flinch from where he sat. Something about the entire motion set him on edge. The fluid nonchalant stretch as he stood up with a groan, the smile fixed firmly to his face but so unlike his usual one. Too thin lipped, too forced. “Just finished, that’s all.”

“Can I see?”

“No.” The word came out quickly, the book already slipped inside a back pocket of his pack where Ford couldn’t get to it, an unspoken rule between them. Stan seemed to blink at the fervour at which the word had come out as well as Ford did, stunned that he hadn’t hidden the clipped answer behind better, less, forceful words. He grinned, shrugging again. “It’s not finished yet, you can’t see it when it’s not done.”

The fire crackled on between them, the only sound for a moment as the answer fell between them. They both seemed to realise what he had said at the same time. Stan’s grin dropped into confusion, one hand raised and frozen as if he wasn’t quite sure why he’d said it either.

Ford’s eyebrows furrowed, his mind replaying the two sentences just in case he’d heard wrong. “But you just-”

“I know what I said. I’m done for  _now_. It’s not finished yet.” Stan rubbed at his eyes and let out a frustrated groan, knowing exactly where Ford was going.

Ford held his tongue, not wanting to start an argument but it was fairly obvious Stan’s silver tongue was not up to playing games today. It all felt  _off_  to him, Stan hiding something that he wasn’t privy to but he wouldn’t pry. He really didn’t want an argument, especially when a small whisper of his mind pointed out he’d probably come away from it worse.

_Whatever is upsetting him probably has something to do with you. You’ve done enough._

Besides, if Stan didn't want to show him, that was fine. It was his work, after all. He wouldn't push.

It wasn’t until much later, the picture forgotten by both of them, that Ford found it.

Stan had happily left his sketchbook with him a few nights later, his latest sketch a joke that he had teased Ford about relentlessly whilst they set up camp. Flicking through the pages with a soft smile as his brother slept he stumbled across the page and found hesitant scratches of colour barely touched across the full sketch.

A deep hint of red bloomed in one corner of the page but fizzled out before it got close to any lines. There seemed to be a hesitant push at another section, as if he’d tried to continue before breaking off.

Ford wasn’t entirely sure what it meant.

 

* * *

 

It had all bubbled to the surface one night.

A small thud and a curse had Ford sitting up from where he’d been dozing, suddenly more awake. “Stan, you OK?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, go back to sleep.”

Ford frowned at the sulking tone, one he remembered from years back. His brother upset but unable to show it, hiding it behind frustration and defiance because that got less of a reaction than weakness. “You don’t sound fine.”

“ _Ford_ …”

The word was a warning as he sat up. He looked up curiously, noting Stan’s reaching and fumbling arms until they locked around his sketchbook. His frown deepened as the dots connected, his head tilting in perplexity. Was that all? He’d dropped the book? It couldn’t be. His eyes narrowed, Stan’s face a crystal clear image of irritation and disappointment. “Stan.”

“It’s fine. Just butterfingers.” Stan wiggled them as he put the book back on his lap, cursing as he almost dislodged it again.

“It happens.” Ford winced as Stan’s face closed off. Sometimes he really didn’t learn. It was better to make light of issues sometimes. Coaxing and coddling usually set Stan’s teeth on edge, made him feel worse. Somehow it highlighted the thing that he was so desperate to prove was not burdening him or anyone else. He laid back down, staring up at the night sky, hoping the shifting would make Stan feel less scrutinised as he turned it back on him. “It’s true. I wonder if we’ve left a trail of pens and pencils through those first few dimensions we hopped. Just couldn’t seem to keep hold of them. I'm still sure some of those portals just ate them.”

Stan snorted. “Yeah well, I’m still glad you lost a pencil rather than a finger with that ‘it’s so cute it can’t be a predator’ fluff ball you decided to get too close to.”

Ford hummed as he felt the atmosphere lighten. He chanced another peek at his brother, biting his tongue to stop himself from commenting at what he saw. The anger had gone, his brother deflating and staring forlornly at the sketchbook as if he’d forgotten Ford was even there. His hand trailed over the pages slowly, softly until he seemed to give up and dropped his head back.

It was almost worse than the anger, he was used to that. This was… deeper, colder. An edge of hopeless acceptance mixed in with the disappointment.

“I lost where I was.”

_Oh._

Ford didn't know what to say to that, a vast amount of information hitting him in one fell swoop and knocking him for six. "Oh- I- that is-"

"Just go to sleep, Sixer. It's fine."

It wasn't fine.

But he didn't know how to make it better.

"But-"

" _Please_ , Sixer, just- go to sleep, it's not that big a deal."

It was only the pleading tone, the desperate, biting edge to his words that had him giving in, nodding quietly.

"OK... goodnight Stan."

Stan let out a relieved breath. "Goodnight, Ford."

 

* * *

 

Ford would never say it out loud for fear of the response.

But it really was fascinating watching his brother work.

Not to mention, heart warming as his confidence grew and grew.

It took a while, small steps and even smaller wins but once something clicked, everything else seemed to fall into place. There was a strange nervousness to it all at first, a hesitance that broached on doubtful and unease, as if he couldn't quite put pen to paper without first thinking about failure and disappointment. He'd had a few hiccups, a few moments that he tried to hide from Ford but once they came to light, he couldn't unsee them. Half drawn images, left as they were, lost to the pages as something distracted him or something more important came up, colours splashed in shuffling bright clusters that fizzled out before they got close to anything else, too afraid even though he himself had wanted the colour in the first place, wanted to put to paper what he was thinking.

But the fact that he stopped himself, thought he couldn't, only frustrated him further.

Ford stopped asking to see his artwork, not because he didn't want to see it, but because he didn't want to push. He'd wait until Stan asked for his journal to tell stories for the evening, let Stan decide whether or not to swap him for his sketchbook or slip it into his pack instead. And sure enough, soon he proudly and gratefully took the book from him when it was offered, saw Stan's sheepish but hopeful smile as he gave him it, proud of what he had managed to accomplish.

The changes then came in leaps and bounds.

Ford watched as the pencil pressure increased first, not much, but enough for him to feel the difference between the pages, able to follow lines if he closed his eyes, but not enough to leave much of a dent on the next. He wondered then, as Stan seemed exasperated with himself, if he'd carried on writing gently, not wanting to mar Ford's journal with doodles that he couldn't rub out quickly if he wanted to. Wondered if it had taken him this long to realise this was his book and his alone and what he did with it was completely and utterly up to him.

And so the pressure increased, the images coming more and more to life as Ford watched. More confident, sharper, anecdotes and nothingness scribbled into the sides, no longer caring what went on the page as long as something did when he needed to clear his head.

And then came colour.

 

* * *

 

It was around that point that Ford wondered whether he should say anything.

His brother was sat beside him, completely at ease, his sketchbook on his lap for all to see as he coloured away at the scene. And Ford found himself biting his tongue, a question at the tip of it but he didn't want to ruin the moment, didn't want to cast Stan's drawing into doubt again when he was so content right where he was.

Stan saw to that, amusement colouring his tone. "Sixer, I can hear your head from here."

"What?"

"The cogs. They're whirring away up there and rattling about. So what is it? What's going on in that big old head of yours?"

"I- that is-" Ford licked his lips, gulping nervously. He glanced from the campfire before them and back to Stan's drawing of it, the pencil in his hands at odds with his own senses. "I- just wondered why that colour?"

Stan hummed, uncaring at the query, shrugging as he twirled the purple pencil in his hand, adding another few twisted s shapes of flames crackling from the top of the wood. "You mean it's not purple?"

"I- uhh- well..."

"It's alright, Sixer, I kind of assumed." Stan shrugged again, continuing in his work. There was a mischief settling around his shoulders, his smile twisting to one side as Ford huffed and struggled with his words. He wasn't going to stop him though, he wanted him to get past this on his own. To ask him questions like he always used to and not worry about the consequences. And if that meant being cryptic for a while, then he would happily be an enigma for his brother to solve.

There was a deep sigh beside him, his smile only widening as his brother flopped against him, giving in. "Alright, you still haven't answered me why that colour then?"

Stan made a thoughtful noise, tilting his head to one side as Ford avidly watched. "It smells purple?"

Ford blinked at him, leaning back a bit to really scrutinise him. "...OK."

There was a bubble of laughter at the utter confusion in Ford's voice. "Wow, I didn't think I'd actually hear the cogs in your head spin faster." He shook his head, still giggling away. "Lavender? It kind of smells like lavender."

Ford continued to stare at him before turning back to the fire and taking a deep breath. There was a tang of something behind the smell of smoke and ash, now that he mentioned it. He brought an unburnt twig up to his nose, the fragrance hitting him stronger now that he knew what to look for.

No wonder they both felt so relaxed beside this fire, lounging and soothed by the wash of smells.

"Fascinating."

Stan huffed out another laugh beside him. "Did you really not notice? Guess it was my turn to gather up the firewood tonight." He stretched, adding a few more dots of fire before regarding his work. "Perfect."

Ford gave an agreeable hum as the book was turned to him properly.

Stan rolled his eyes playfully, putting the book back. "Well, not perfect I guess if I got the colour wrong. Really did smell purple though, so I was hopeful."

Ford's mind scrambled quickly at the put out words, knowing they were meant in jest but hating the tone all the same. His eyes lit up as he glanced back down at the twig before him, a bright smile on his face as he dropped it on Stan's sketchbook.

"I dunno, the leaves look about the same colour in this light, now you mention it."

Stan turned to him, eyes narrowed. "Really? You're not messing with me, right? Cause I honestly don't care that much-"

"No, I mean it. Not bright purple, but a purple tint all the same."

It was worth it for Stan's soft happy smile.

"Huh, what do you know. I got something right after all."

 

* * *

 

The amount of extra information Stan could add whilst colouring was incredible.

It became a usual part of their day for Stan to ask him to describe something he had seen- plant life, an animal, whatever he was researching that day if not the landscape around them. Sometimes Ford couldn't resist to start it off himself, telling him in detail what the world around them looked like - a desert of glittering crystals stretching for miles, a waterfall completely frozen in place but warm to the touch, a meadow full of butterflies with wingspans as wide as they were tall.

But then it became a habit as well, to leave out the colours, if only to watch Stan's mind at work as he painted the picture Ford had described into his own translations onto page.

Stan would always ask afterwards, not before, and Ford was happy to let him have that, to add the colours to the page on his own first.

And really, the outcomes were breathtaking, filled with so many clues and fundamental research that he on occasion had missed or hadn't thought to write down.

There were flowers with sweeping lines of colour, following the lines as the they traversed the page, silken and soft and all together light. Vicious creatures that had attacked them had fur in sharp bold colours, scribbled in triangles that spread out of the lines and onto the page, the size of them depending on how coarse it had been beneath his fists. Trees were hardly ever coloured in, sweeping swirls and wobbling, bobbling lines, casting the burrs and knots his fingers had travelled over onto the page to sit forever.

There were cold blues and warm reds, depending on the temperature of the places they had found themselves. Orange featured heavily one day when they'd walked through a town market, the scent of citrus thick in the air even if none of the fruits seemed recognisable. There was rich purple splashed across another, when they were settled into warm comfy beds after months of sleeping in the woods with little more than a makeshift lean to when needed.

Nuuls in pastel pink and green, soft soothing colours to compliment the small birds personalities, the chicklets in turn cast neon, excitable and chatty. Each coloured line was a quick semi-circle, as if they could purr themselves right off the page and into his lap, much like a sleeping one had done, vibrating so happily on his head it had promptly rolled all the way down into his arms.

Every colour had it's place, every texture had another and Stan's imagination flared bright as a spark whenever Ford just sat and watched and listened to him work.

He couldn't help but be grateful that the spark was still there, that a drive and a passion was there.

It gave him hope for their future, wherever their lives may take them.

They were healing, in their own way, they were both healing.

"What are you drawing, Ford?"

"Hmm?" Ford looked up from his hatching, his quick sharp shading that he was intent on getting perfect. He smiled as Stan yawned beside him. "Oh, just the lizard we met earlier. I still haven't thought up a name for it yet though."

"The lizard?"

"Yeah, the little friendly one that got curious when we stopped for a break."

"Oh, the scaly cat."

Ford rolled his eyes. "Lizard, Stan. It was most definitely a lizard."

Stan grinned, toothy and childish. "I mean, it wrapped its way in and out of my legs, trying to trip me up. So I'm pretty sure it was an affectionate cat with scales."

Ford chuffed, endearing and exasperated amusement colouring his features. "Alright, you win, guess I can't argue with that. So what about you? What are you drawing today?"

Stan's grin softened, happy and light in the flicker of the camp fire. "Actually, I was drawing the glade you said we walked through earlier. So I guess where we met our newfound friend?"

"Oh?" A flush of curiosity escaped him, his hand outstretched without intention. "Can I see? Is it finished yet?"

"Sure- oh wait." Stan's hand was out towards him, closed sketchbook ready and waiting before he pulled back, smile slipping off his face to be replaced by trepidation and a twinge of guilt that Ford couldn't comprehend. "Actually, maybe not."

"Stan?"

"It's nothing."

"Stan." Ford didn't mean to sound demanding, or quite so disappointed. It wasn't the drawing itself, but more that Stan's mood had suddenly shifted, an awkward cold atmosphere bubbling up to douse the comfortable warmth that had been resting between them. "You know you don't have to show me anything you don't want to. It was just... the sudden change of heart."

"It's not that. I'm just not sure you'll like this one." Stan clutched the book to his chest, looking off to the side, face puckered in annoyance at himself.

"Like it? Why wouldn't I like it? I like everything you draw."

"You don't like yellow."

Ford froze, the words slipping out of his brother in a rush, as if the dam had broken and he couldn't keep them in, or perhaps that the faster he said them the quicker they could leave the statement where it now fell between them and go on to more pleasant conversations. He wondered when he'd noticed, what little noises of discontent, or muttered words he'd said whilst they'd travelled. Little signs that showed that certain shades of yellow made him flinch and glance about, made his throat lock up.

How could his brother know when he couldn't see the colour too?

He must have mentioned it, maybe in the throes of a nightmare or in the haze of sleep that made it hard to lie through.

Maybe the few times they'd relaxed in a city, got drunk in a bar and pretended that just for the night they were in any old city back on Earth and that nothing had ever gone awry.

Either way, as shocked as he was, there was something so utterly Stan about the perception, about the protection.

He hadn't even noticed that yellow rarely frequented the pages of Stan's book.

"I forgot." Stan's eyebrows furrowed. "How did I forget? It just felt like the right colour-"

"It's- it's alright, bro, no harm done."

"It's not though."

"Can I see?"

The words were met with silence, Stan's frown dropping into open mouthed shock as his head snapped back towards him. He gripped his book all the tighter before responding. "Really? You want to see- even though-?"

"Yeah, if that's OK?"

Stan bit his lip before nodding, handing the book over, though albeit still hesitantly.

Ford gave his thanks, making sure to put his hand over Stan's and squeeze before taking the book entirely. He flicked to the last page, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling as he felt Stan's unseeing eyes on him, waiting with bated breath, listening intently to every noise to make sure Ford didn't hurt himself.

As it was, he needn't have worried. Though Ford was both endeared and grateful at the notion.

The page blew away the frost that had been forming between them, a sunlit landscape opening up as he revealed the page. There wasn't a drop of blue in sight. The tree trunks swirled with orange, the leaves dappled with smears and dots of red.

And below it all was a thick blanket of yellow grass, scribbled and coloured in as much as possible.

"Why?"

"What was that?"

The response was quick, nervous and quiet and Ford couldn't help but smile at it. "It's great, Stan, can you explain the colours to me?"

"It just... felt like autumn. All the leaves were crunchy like when we were kids, but the trees themselves felt warm to the touch."

Ford smiled as Stan continued, painting over the image in his head with his own. "And the grass? Was it dry?" The yellow brought out thoughts of the Savannah, of dry crisp grass and a fog of heat.

"No, it- it just didn't taste green."

Ford blinked, the image vanishing as he turned to his sheepish but otherwise chuckling brother. "Excuse me?"

"When, I fell over? You know, tripping over Mr scaly cat?"

"The lizard."

"Yeah, scaly cat." Stan's grin continued to spread across his face. "You know how grass has that smell and taste? Like grass stains, or when it gets cut? It didn't taste like that. Almost tasted like lemon- lemongrass? Though I have no idea what that ever tasted like back on Earth so..." He shrugged. "It just didn't taste green."

"It didn't taste green." Ford parroted back, his voice filled with amused disbelief until Stan shoved him playfully. "Alright, alright, you win." He gave the book back, getting a huff for his efforts, though Stan's face said he wasn't actually irritated with him. "And Stan?"

"Yeah?" The voice was gruff, ready for more teasing.

"Thanks for letting me take a look."

Stan stayed quiet, nodding awkwardly as he started to put the pencils back in their well used, and protected, case.

"I really liked it." Ford added quietly, watching Stan try to stifle the smile that threatened to overtake his face, his muscles relaxing ever so slightly.

"Good. I'm glad-" Stan coughed, shaking himself, face distasteful at the abruptly sappy moment. "Now come on, tell me about our scaly friend, what did I miss when he scampered off?"

"Well..."

 

* * *

 

A night sky stretched across the page. It was stylised, bright glowing orbs of light dusting across the page, large and filled with yellows and orange, amidst a steady blanket of vibrant blue and vivid purple.

He was almost tempted to take his glasses off, to watch the stars that were so much closer than they were on earth, stretch and spin into similar lines and bright burning spots. To watch the way the backdrop of the night sky spread into a swirl of it's own colours hidden behind the lights.

"Hey, Stan?"

He got a gruff, half asleep noise in response, his brother staring straight up as if tracing the sky himself, eyes half lidded and hands twitching where he lay.

"You know, I think you're changing my mind on the colour yellow. Maybe it's not so bad, after all."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, it's growing on me."

Stan smiled back, dazed and listless as he curled up.

Ford let him without a word, eyes darting between the sky before him and below him, quick darting serene moments as he took first watch.

In hindsight, maybe he should have wondered then if his brother's sight was returning.

 

* * *

 

"Is that what I think it is?"

Ford jolted from his memories as he sat up, catching his brother's eye across the kitchen table. His brother smirked at him, glad to have snuck up on him for the reaction, and so in return, Ford couldn't help but return the sibling annoyance. "I don't know, what do you think it is?"

Stan huffed, eyes crinkling happily against the annoyed noise. "Well, it looks like one of your journals, but I thought they all got burned up by that one eyed triangle?"

"Not all of them, the ones from our journeys in the portal stayed in here." He kicked the backpack at his feet, the find of the day it seemed as he unearthed a whole host of items he'd thought had been lost during Weirdmaggedon. "But no, this isn't one of my journals- it's one of yours."

"One of-? Hey, my sketchbook!" Stan hit a chair over on his way, a loud clatter of energy along with a few curses, but all in good humour as he scurried over to Ford's side, squinting down at his work.

Ford felt something hot and angry, spark up in his chest, smothering it in relief at Stan's flickering gaze. It wouldn't do to dwell, Bill was gone now, defeated and what had been done during that time, to both of them and their family was slowly but surely healing once more.

Still... if he had a chance, he wouldn't mind tearing Bill to pieces-

"Wow, I don't know if I ever looked this far back in my sketchbooks, is this the first one?" Stan flicked back a few pages as Ford nodded, his face embarrassed as he shook his head and whistled. "Wow, I mean- what even is that? I think I'll let you do the drawing and recording from now on."

Ford huffed, dragging the book away from him to hug against his chest, indignant for him. "Don't you dare. I always loved your interpretations more."

Stan's face softened, awkward and slightly apologetic as he ducked his head. "I always thought you were just saying that."

"Never."

"...So, what's the best one?"

The words were quiet, Stan already shaking his head and ready to pass it off as a joke, but Ford wouldn't let him. "Honestly? I'm not sure I'd be able to pick."

The way Stan's chest puffed up, proud through his self-consciousness was worth every well meant and honest word.

"Hey, what are you two doing in here?"  

The pair glanced up as Mabel shuffled in, bright smile gleaming as she took in their happy expressions. She mock scowled, crossing her arms. "I thought I sent you in here to grab Grunkle Ford, Grunkle Stan! Not join him!"

Stan chuckled straightening up. "Oh yeah, sorry pumpkin, he distracted me."

Ford ducked around him as he stood up to catch Mabel's eye, his own twinkling. "I found some of your Grunkles artwork, wanna see?"

"Hey!"

"Yes!"

The sounds intermingled as Mabel weaved through Stan's legs, sitting on Ford's lap before he'd even had a chance to stop her.

Dipper's head poking around the door, curious as well, made him sigh in defeat. "They're just doodles from our trips."

He wasn't entirely sure how that made Dipper even more intrigued, shuffling into the room to grab his hand and tug him back towards the table, his face heating up with embarrassment.

"Wow, these are good! Where was this one?" Mabel pointed excitedly at the one that Ford had left the book open on, before flicking to another page. "Oh! And this one? What about this one?"

Dipper nodded along, pushing Stan into a seat before sitting beside him. "That one looks interesting too."

Ford laughed at Stan's disgruntled expression, the pretence hiding his self-conscious happiness and pride as Mabel gushed over his work. He laughed as his brother finally caught his eye, giving a sigh of defeat and waving him on.

"Go on then. Which dimension do you think we should tell them about today?"

"Hmm..." Ford grabbed his journal, propping it up beside the sketchbook before giving the kids full reign over both, a feat that he would have never allowed only a few weeks before, when the kids hadn't even been a blip in their imaginations.

"How about you two flick through and choose where you want to go today?"

**Author's Note:**

> AN: Some indulgent fluff that this au severely needs imo haha ^^;  
> Plus I just wanted to write some healing in a way? Mending bridges, bonding.


End file.
